


things that fly

by myrmidryad



Series: Underground Dreaming [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Magic, Non-Binary Jehan, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s not fair, excluding certain types of magic because they don’t fit into the old categories and tick the right boxes. What makes the street mage any different from the performing thaumaturge? Why should shamans and necromancers be denied the license to legally sell their services when diabolists and vaticinators are paid hundreds of euros per sitting?”</p><p> </p><p>Or: Enjolras is having ideas about setting up some sort of activism group and Bahorel points him in the direction of a couple of friends of his who might be interested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	things that fly

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from one of the lyrics from [We Could Be Friends](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g09WSFuSnF0) by Freelance Whales - 'we compare our hearts to things that fly'.
> 
> This universe was partially inspired by this super cool academic-style essay by [icarus_chained](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained) called [Cultural Traditions in North American Magic and Their Ramifications](http://archiveofourown.org/works/994959). Summary: "The purpose of this paper is to explore the various cultural traditions of magic on the North American continent, a rough outline of their origins, and their influence on the modern practice and understanding of magic in the United States." A faux-academic paper exploring magic and the (failure of) its regulation in an alternate United States circa 2002-ish.

“No, no, no,” the man called Grantaire waved a hand assertively. “Forget that crap, forget all about the alchemy and the laws and that bullshit. The best magic is the stuff you make on your own.” 

“In a different context, that would sound really romantic,” Jehan said dreamily. Grantaire snorted and pushed his shoulder, the ease of familiarity open between them. Enjolras cocked his head and watched, but didn’t comment. He wasn’t entirely sure whether these two were in a relationship or not, not that it really mattered. Really. 

Bahorel had given him the directions to come to this building and this particular one-room flat (the second-smallest he’d ever seen) because Bahorel met new people and became their friend with apparently no effort at all, and he’d informed Enjolras that Jehan seemed interested in hearing more about their ideas. So Enjolras had come to the tiny flat Jehan was sharing with a scruffy man called Grantaire. He was at least ninety percent sure neither of them were actually renting it – he got the vague impression that they were hiding there until something blew over, since they were both very reluctant to go outside, and outright refused to open the blinds. 

Enjolras didn’t particularly care what they were mixed up in. He just wanted more people on board, and the best way to do that was by meeting with them. He was usually very persuasive, but so far Jehan and Grantaire were presenting some very interesting arguments. 

The room had a bunk bed to save space, and the three of them were curled up on the bottom bunk, an ashtray precariously balanced between Jehan and Grantaire as they passed a joint back and forth. Enjolras watched from between them, his back against the wall. “Self-taught magic is the most unreliable,” Enjolras countered, without heat. Some of his best spells had been self-crafted, after all, or at least collaboratively-crafted. His best had been created and honed with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “You need a basic grasp of the rules at least before you start breaking them.” 

“Mmmm,” Jehan agreed, pointing at him. “Like experiments in everything. After all, if you don’t know the basics, how do you even know what you’re doing is experimentation?” 

“But that’s the great thing about it,” Grantaire protested. “It’s completely organic. Look at the stuff Gavroche does – he’s this kid we know,” he explained to Enjolras, “he’s eleven. He uses memory sticks and burrito wrappers in his spells, and they work brilliantly. If you don’t know the basics, there’s even more room for experimentation and exploration than usual precisely _because_ the rules are unknown. You aren’t told you can’t do something because it’s technically against the rules or some bullshit like that. You do what you like, and there’s no one to tell you otherwise.” 

“More knowledge provides the basis for more ground-breaking experimentation though,” Enjolras pointed out, though he was drawn by Grantaire’s speech. If he was lucky, he might come away with two new contacts. 

Grantaire laughed and sat up a bit, gesturing to Jehan. “Show him the smoke trick.” 

“With the –?” 

“Nah, just the colours.” 

Jehan grinned and nodded, taking a deep drag of the joint. Holding the smoke in, he drew a sigil or something on his chest, and then exhaled slowly. The smoke that emerged was thick, and coloured pink. Grantaire laughed, and even Enjolras couldn’t help smiling, already wondering how exactly he’d managed to do it. It clearly wasn’t an illusion. He fanned his fingertips through it and pursed his lips thoughtfully as Grantaire took a hit and exhaled a long plume of yellow smoke shot through with black. 

“What’s the point though?” he asked aloud. 

“What’s the point of literature?” Jehan shot back. “Or art? What’s the point of anything?” 

“Enjoyment,” Grantaire sighed, leaning back on his elbows and closing his eyes. “Getting what little you can in this world.” Both were quite morbid, Enjolras was coming to see, but Grantaire was definitely the more grounded and pessimistic of the pair. As if to contradict him, Grantaire grinned suddenly and flapped a hand at Jehan. “Do the shotgun trick. Come on, show him.” 

Jehan rolled his eyes with an indulgent smile and leaned forward. Enjolras watched, curious, as Grantaire took a long drag, traced something on his chest, and leaned close until their lips were almost touching, and then blew the smoke directly from his mouth to Jehan’s. Even in the dim light, Enjolras could see that it had changed – it seemed to sparkle slightly, and he could sense the crackle of unrefined magic passing between the two men in the smoke. Jehan sucked it in, barely a wisp escaping, and sat back with a proud smile. He waited for a moment, and then breathed out slowly. 

Enjolras’ eyes widened despite himself as a rainbow of colours emerged to hang on the air, the smoke not dissipating the way it should have done, but holding together and swirling, the colours mixing to form a vibrant purple, hints of bright leafy green and a blue so pale it was almost white. The smoke wafted into a vaguely orb-like shape before coming apart, the colours vanishing in seconds. 

“It’s a revealing spell,” Enjolras realised, a delighted smile spreading across his face as he suddenly understood. “Isn’t it? The sigil, it’s for revelation, not transformation.” 

“There’s transformation too,” Jehan told him, sounding very pleased with himself. “To thicken the smoke and make the colours, but with this one you don’t choose the colours yourself – they’re revealed, like you said.” 

“Like a personality test.” 

“A really, really basic one, yeah.” Jehan smiled. 

“But the simplest revelations are the most true,” Grantaire murmured, leaning back on his elbows again. “It’s about as useful as a fart in a jam jar, but it’s very pretty.” 

“You want to try?” Jehan asked eagerly. Enjolras raised his eyebrows. 

“It doesn’t need instruction?” 

“Not this one – the first smoker does all the work; you just have to let it sit in your lungs for a couple of seconds and breathe out. Easy.” 

It really was. The simplicity and grace of it was breath-taking. Not particularly useful, as Grantaire had said, but it was beautiful spellcraft. To have such a visual effect produced by a secondary subject without any necessary instruction was a fantastic achievement – Jehan was clearly very skilled. A small part of Enjolras cried out at the waste of talent on such a trivial spell, but it was mostly suppressed by his pleasure at seeing such clever work. 

“You do it, R,” Jehan said, leaning against the ladder. “You’re better at it.” 

“Jehan –” 

“Go on.” Jehan smiled brightly, and Enjolras could tell he was missing something, but he didn’t have time to figure out what before Grantaire sighed and looked at him.

“You smoke, right?” 

“Occasionally.” 

“But you can shotgun a hit?” 

Enjolras’ lips quirked. “I think I can manage it.” And the idea of being so close to Grantaire wasn’t exactly unwelcome. Whether it was the weed or the magic putting him so much at ease, he was less concerned than usual about keeping himself in check. 

Grantaire gave him a wry expression, but nodded and took a shallower drag on the joint than he had for Jehan. Enjolras didn’t care. He shifted closer as Grantaire drew the sigil on his breast and leaned forward. Enjolras shifted towards him and inclined his head so their noses wouldn’t touch, though he was sorely tempted to nudge them together just to see what it felt like. 

His heart thudded in his throat, but he inhaled the smoke Grantaire blew gently into his lips easily, already prepared for the sensation of unfamiliar magic entering his body. He could feel it, heavier than the smoke, as it slid into his lungs and seemed to warm them, and as Grantaire gave him the last of it, he thought for a second that they might kiss, but then Grantaire drew back, watching him with pale blue eyes. “Remember to hold it,” he said quietly. Enjolras nodded, concentrating on holding the magic inside until he could tell the spell had finished acting (so _fast_ , just a couple of seconds; such brilliant work). 

The smoke he exhaled was hot, especially on his lips for some reason, and he was surprised when it came out red instead of rainbow-hued as Jehan’s had. It swirled the way Jehan’s had though, and began to change slightly, many shades rippling through it. On the other side, he saw Grantaire start to smile, a real smile that lit up his whole face. 

“Look,” he gestured Jehan forward without looking away. “There’s gold in there.” 

There was, Enjolras realised, strangely thrilled. Little shining threads of gold almost hidden in the red, and hints of other colours concealed behind the layers of crimson and scarlet. 

“Gorgeous,” Grantaire sighed as it drifted apart before Enjolras could get a proper look, and he tilted his head up to breathe some in before it disappeared completely. “Beautiful.” He fell back on the pillow and smiled up at the slats of the bed above. 

“You do it now, R,” Jehan said, and Grantaire’s smile vanished. 

“No.” 

“Go on,” Jehan nudged his leg with his bare foot. “It’s your spell, go on.” 

Enjolras hoped his start of shock didn’t show in his face. It was _Grantaire’s_ spell? 

“No, quit pestering me.” Grantaire reached up and used the slats to pull himself upright again. 

“Come on, Enjolras wants to see, right?” Jehan shot him a sly smile, and Enjolras nodded before he’d really thought about it, still consumed with the realisation that Grantaire was the one who’d created such a clever, intricate little spell. It shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise – he’d only met the guy a few hours ago, after all, but for some reason it mattered more. 

“It’s only fair,” he said. Grantaire met his eyes and held them for a second before sighing. 

“Fine. Fine.” 

Jehan grinned and pinched the last of the joint between his lips, inhaling deeply and dropping it into the ashtray before drawing the sigil-rune-symbol-thing on his chest and leaning close. They were friends, Enjolras understood very suddenly. Close friends, practically siblings, but not lovers. He was guilty to realise how pleased that made him, and he pushed it down and sat back against the wall to watch as Grantaire closed his eyes and breathed out. 

The smoke that emerged from his mouth was so dark that for a moment Enjolras thought it was black, but as it eddied and came together, he saw that it was actually dark green, deep and rich like river-soaked moss. Grantaire gazed at it with distaste, and lifted a hand to swipe through it that Jehan caught mid-air. “No,” he said firmly, and Grantaire huffed and fell on his side, glaring at the smoke as it hung between the three of them. 

There was more than green in there, Enjolras saw, leaning forward. There were glittering pockets of black too, and as the smoke shifted, he caught a glimpse of a paler colour behind all the green – pale pink, or perhaps white, and a sudden flash of brighter green before Grantaire waved his hand through it, dispersing the smoke completely. Jehan made a tutting sound, but Grantaire ignored him, rolling onto his side and burying his head into the pillow with a tired sigh. 

Jehan lifted the ashtray up before Grantaire’s movements could upset it, and shrugged at Enjolras. “You staying?” 

“If that’s alright.” 

“No problem.” Jehan got up and set the ashtray on the table before stretching and yawning. Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure where he was supposed to go, but Jehan just hauled himself up onto the top bunk with a muttered, “Goodnight,” and left him to it. 

“Um.” Enjolras looked down at Grantaire, who turned his head and opened his eyes a bit. 

“You’re sharing with me, then.” 

“I guess.” 

Grantaire hummed and shuffled over to the edge to make a little more room, and Enjolras wriggled out of his jeans and socks quickly. As soon as he had, Grantaire reached out and turned off the lamp by the bed, plunging them into darkness. Enjolras stayed still to let his eyes adjust for a second before he lay down slowly, surprised at how quickly the night had ended. There was only one pillow, so he and Grantaire had to lie quite close to each other, almost touching in more places than Enjolras could name. 

It was warm, and comfortable, and Enjolras studied what he could see of Grantaire’s face in the gloom. His curly hair was thick and overgrown, and Enjolras could see the shade of stubble on his face even without the light. Awake, Grantaire was full of expression, never staying still, constantly talking or commenting wordlessly on what was being said with his mouth and eyebrows, tilting his head and gesturing with his hands. 

Asleep, he looked much smaller. Not _younger_ , exactly, but…it was as if he’d been staving off exhaustion, and it was only catching up with him now. His hair looked soft, more than long enough to bury fingers in, and Enjolras clenched his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. This wasn’t like him. He’d come here on Bahorel’s recommendation to sound out Jehan, not get tangled up with Jehan’s friend. 

His obviously incredibly talented, witty, intelligent friend. 

 _Fuck_. 

Grantaire exhaled heavily through his nose and shifted onto his back, taking a little of the duvet with him. Enjolras was forced to move closer to stay warm, and his knee pressed against Grantaire’s leg, thankfully clothed in pyjama bottoms. The temptation to press his lips to Grantaire’s shoulder was strong, but Enjolras kept his eyes closed and resisted stubbornly. 

His last coherent thought before he drifted off was a wish that he knew a spell to ensure a lack of morning wood. 

 

Enjolras wasn’t a heavy sleeper, and he woke up several times, unused to sharing a bed with anyone, let alone a single bed with someone he was determined not to touch. The right time for advances – romantic, sexual, or otherwise – was definitely not in the middle of the night when a rejection would be humiliatingly awkward for all parties involved. 

The final time he woke up, it was light outside (or so he gathered by the pale grey edges to the blinds), and Grantaire was cuddling him. 

He didn’t freeze. Freezing would mean tensing, and Grantaire might feel that and move away, so freezing was out. He endeavoured to continue breathing as normally as possible and not make any squeaking noises. He was lying on his back, and Grantaire had flung an arm across his chest and was using Enjolras’ shoulder as a pillow. Their legs were tangled together as well, and Enjolras’ right arm was cold, spread out as it was across the bare mattress. Grantaire was a duvet-hog of the first degree, Enjolras had discovered last night, and while it had been annoying waking up over and over to have to tug some back for himself, now it was just endearing. 

If he moved his head to the right, he could feel Grantaire’s hair against his jaw. Soft, as he’d expected, and smelling of smoke. He closed his eyes again and pressed his cheek down gently, tempted but not giving into the urge to kiss Grantaire’s head. That would be weird, and definitely non-consensual. 

Grantaire’s fingers moved against his side, not light enough to tickle, and Enjolras pretended to be asleep as Grantaire stirred, hand holding a fistful of Enjolras’ shirt. He jerked away suddenly with a muttered, “Shit,” and Enjolras made a sleepy noise and pulled his arm under the duvet, pretending to wake up. 

“Morning,” he muttered, voice gravelly. His mouth tasted awful, and he wished he’d brought a toothbrush. 

“Um.” Grantaire was sitting up, propped up on one arm with his gravity-defying hair sticking in every direction. “Morning.” 

“Time is it?” Enjolras mumbled, not having to feign lethargy. 

“Hang on.” Grantaire put one foot on the floor and stretched towards the table, grabbing what Enjolras assumed was a phone. “Urgh, not even seven. Fuck that.” 

Enjolras grimaced. “Couldn’t agree more.” _Come back to bed_ was on the tip of the tongue, but that would have been far too familiar, and Grantaire came back anyway with a pleased sound as he slid under the duvet into the warmth. 

“When do you need to go?” he asked, facing away from Enjolras, who rolled onto his side to answer, minorly fascinated by the outline of Grantaire’s shoulder blades under the worn grey of his shirt. 

“Not for a while. Combeferre won’t expect me before eleven.” 

“Who’s he?” 

“A friend. My best friend,” Enjolras added, and thought he felt a slight hint of satisfaction from Grantaire at that. Pushing down trepidation, he inched closer, mouth close to Grantaire’s curls. “He’d love your shotgun spell.” 

He heard Grantaire’s smile in his voice. “Yeah?” 

Enjolras smiled too. “Definitely. He loves magic like that – really simple, but really clever.” 

“It’s not that clever.” 

“You influenced me without me needing to add anything,” Enjolras said dryly. “That’s pretty clever. What did you draw on your chest, by the way? A sigil?” 

“Kind of. I’m pretty shit at making them the traditional way – y’know, out of words? – so I kind of made it up.” 

“You made it up?” 

“Well it’s not difficult,” Grantaire snorted at the surprise in Enjolras’ tone. “I know my runes alright, and some ogham, so I started with peorth and worked from there. It was mostly trial and error though, to be honest.” 

“How long did it take you?” 

“Not sure.” Grantaire exhaled heavily. “I was definitely drunk at the time.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows at the back of Grantaire’s head. “Wait, you created it in one session?” 

“Session?” 

“Less than a week?” Enjolras amended. 

Grantaire laughed, and his hair brushed the tip of Enjolras’ nose as he rolled onto his back. “It was definitely in one night.” 

Enjolras scooted backwards and fought the urge to splutter. “You created it in one night? While you were drunk?” 

“I do my best crafting under the influence,” Grantaire said, amused. “Why, how long would it take you?” 

Enjolras considered it. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “My focus is on physical manifestations of force and empathetic influence.” 

“You’re an actual magician, aren’t you?” Grantaire smirked, more entertained than mocking. “Properly educated. What does that even mean, physical manifestations of force?” 

“Nasty attack spells, basically.” 

“Like the gendarmerie?” 

“I specialise in riot tactics.” 

Grantaire’s smile slipped away. “Fucking hell. Why?” 

“Fight fire with fire,” Enjolras said simply. 

Grantaire was quiet for a moment. “The shotgun spell’s a bit beneath you really, isn’t it?” 

“No,” Enjolras frowned. “Of course not. It’s beautiful. I’m not particularly good at delicate magic, that’s all. And I’m terrible at crafting,” he added. 

“Anyone can craft.” 

“I’m not saying I can’t,” Enjolras said irritably. “I’m just not very good at it.” 

Grantaire chuckled. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty I’m no good at.” He shifted a little, rolling onto his side to face Enjolras, their knees bumping together as he got comfortable. “So what can you do? Any natural talents besides lashing out and running your mouth?” 

Enjolras was too comfortable to be annoyed. “I suppose empathy counts? Though it’s not much more than heightened intuition most of the time. I only actually found out I was on the scale when they tested me for it.” 

“They?” 

“Teachers. I refused to participate in the aptitude exams at the end of the year, so they found another way to measure me and pin me on a neat little chart.” 

Grantaire looked at him curiously. “You refused to participate?” 

“I said I’d do the exams if they included practical culture-based magic and street magic as options, but they wouldn’t allow it. So I refused.” 

Grantaire grinned. “You know street magic?” 

“A little,” Enjolras didn’t bother pretending. “I didn’t at the time.” 

“So why bother?” 

“Just because I couldn’t, doesn’t mean others should have been excluded. There was a boy in my class who knew more spells than anyone else, but because they were a mix of street and Maghrebi traditional, they didn’t count. It’s not fair, excluding certain types of magic because they don’t fit into the old categories and tick the right boxes. What makes the street mage any different from the performing thaumaturge? Why should shamans and necromancers be denied the license to legally sell their services when diabolists and vaticinators are paid hundreds of euros per sitting?” 

“Careful,” Grantaire murmured. “They’ll lock you up.” 

“They can try,” Enjolras said. 

“They’ll succeed.” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t know any street magic, how can you expect to make your point?” 

“I’m learning,” Enjolras told him. “And that’s exactly why I’m specialising in physical manifestations of force.” 

“Mm. What was the other one?” 

“Empathetic influence. Crowd control, essentially.” 

“But you said your empathy isn’t strong.” 

“It’s stronger in some situations. I’m very good at saying the right thing.” 

Grantaire looked at him thoughtfully. “Not a mind-reader though.” 

“Intuitive, I told you.” 

Grantaire looked back up at the slats and yawned, eyes falling closed. “Sleep. It’s too early for this.” 

They could talk more later, Enjolras decided, already looking forward to it. He sighed into the pillow and went back to sleep. 

 

He woke up to the sound of a phone ringing loudly. As he opened his eyes blearily, Grantaire groaned, and Jehan cursed from above them. “R, it’s yours.” 

Grantaire made a low hissing noise and slid partially out of the bed to reach for the phone on the table. The duvet was pulled with him and Enjolras scowled, pulling it back and accidentally pulling Grantaire off his balance so he fell back onto the bed harder than he’d probably meant to. Enjolras put his hand against Grantaire’s back to stop him toppling backwards onto him, and Grantaire huffed and answered his phone, sliding back under the duvet. 

Enjolras pulled his hand away and flexed his fingers, internally scolding himself for getting so worked up over nothing. 

“What?” Grantaire snapped. 

“Good morning to you too,” a sharp female voice replied, the phone close enough for Enjolras to hear her clearly. 

“It’s not even half eight, Ponine!” 

“The early bird catches the worm. Don’t you want an update?” 

“What’s she saying?” Jehan called. 

“Hang on, hang on,” Grantaire grumbled. “You’re both terrible people. Update me and then bugger off.” 

“Charming,” the woman snorted. “Evard’s still pissed off, and I’d avoid the Café Villais for a while. Montparnasse – the cemetery, not the person – has been tagged by Reynaud and her lot, and I heard from Azelma that a bunch of kids tried to get in and practise some knock-off vodou.” Grantaire snorted, and the woman laughed. “I know, right?” 

“How’s Gavroche?” Grantaire asked, sounding a lot less confrontational. 

“Haven’t seen him around. He’ll be fine, don’t worry about him.” 

Grantaire sighed, and Jehan said, “Has she checked my altar?” 

“Which one?” Grantaire asked. 

“The one in Grenelle.” 

“You get that?” Grantaire asked the woman. 

“Yeah, and I haven’t. Been sticking to the north.” 

“But you’ve got news about Montparnasse? The cemetery, I mean.” 

“Zelma’s south-stuck at the moment.” 

“How come?” 

“She’s hunting for something, not sure what. She’s staying underground though.” 

“Croix-Rouge?” 

“Champ de Mars.” 

“Hm.” 

“Ask her to check my altar,” Jehan insisted. 

“Tell Jehan to fuck off,” the woman said. “And I’m not asking Azelma to do it till she’s done with whatever she’s doing.” 

“Alright,” Grantaire agreed. “Anything else?” 

“Nothing worth the time. Keep your heads down and I’ll see if I can get to you before Thursday. You okay for food?” 

“Yeah, we’re fine.” 

“Good. Later, R.” 

“Adios.” 

Grantaire put the phone on the floor and yawned. “She’s not going to check my altar, is she?” Jehan said miserably. 

Grantaire settled down, still facing away from Enjolras. “Nope,” he said apologetically. “You could ask Bahorel?” 

“He’s too masculine,” Jehan sighed. “It’d throw off the energy. Fuck.” 

“Try Ursule?” 

“She’s sworn off bone magic.” 

“Well it is pretty morbid.” 

“It’s effective!” 

“And morbid,” Grantaire said firmly. “Why can’t you just draw down the moon?” 

Jehan huffed. “We’ve been over this, and it’s way too early to say it all again. I’m going back to sleep.” 

“What time is it?” Enjolras asked quietly. 

Grantaire leaned over the edge of the bed, presumably to check his phone. “Uh…twenty past nine.” 

“I should probably get going.” 

“Mmm.” Grantaire sat up and stretched. “You want breakfast?” 

Enjolras sat up as Grantaire got up and grabbed a soft-looking hoodie from the back of a chair, wrapping himself up in it with a tired sigh. “You sure?” 

“Of course.” Grantaire gave him a smile and padded over to the fridge. “We’ve got bread, I think. Ooh, and eggs. Hey, Jehan, who gave us eggs?” 

“Fuck off,” Jehan groaned, then said in a more moderate tone, “Cendrine, I think.” 

“What a gem,” Grantaire crooned. “If I make you something out of this golden treasure, will you get up?” 

Jehan sighed. “I might.” 

“Omelette?” 

“If you insist.” 

Grantaire bent down to look at Enjolras, who nodded, amused. “Please.” He slid out of the bed and slipped past Grantaire to go to the bathroom. When he came out, Grantaire was cracking eggs into a saucepan and humming something to himself. Enjolras grabbed his jeans and socks from where they’d fallen off the end of the bed and pulled them on, inhaling the smell of cooking eggs gratefully. 

“Do we have flour?” Jehan asked suddenly. 

“Let me check.” Grantaire reached up and opened a couple of mostly empty cupboards. “Nope, no flour. Why, you wanted crêpes?” 

“I did, actually. Never mind. I suppose you can’t have everything you want.” 

Enjolras sat down and smiled. There was something he loved about hearing friends bicker and banter. Listening to Combeferre and Courfeyrac was one of his favourite things, and it only got better when Bahorel and Cosette added their voices as well. 

His omelette was good – far better than anything he could make himself, though that wasn’t really saying much – and Grantaire coaxed Jehan down from the top bunk by wafting the smell from the pan at him. As they ate, Jehan quizzed him on his opinions, and Enjolras answered eagerly, sensing a kindred spirit. Jehan was from a middle-class background, it turned out, but didn’t believe the old traditions were the only way to get things done, and had dropped out of university. He’d been taking Poetry and Magic Traditions, but had ended up disappointed with the rules and limitations. 

“Look at what you can do online,” he said, much brighter with some food inside him. “Some of my best work has been done entirely virtually. This see-me-not spell I set up worked brilliantly, and I didn’t need to worry about the phase of the moon or physical circles or even a physical altar!” 

“But you still work with the regular types of magic?” Enjolras asked. “You said you had an altar you wanted your friend to check on?” 

“Yeah, in the cemetery at Grenelle.” Jehan leaned his head on one hand and gestured with the other. “I’m experimenting with the feminine aspects of bone magic, specifically in regards to how it works depending on how you identify gender-wise. I’m non-binary, so where does that leave me when it comes to defining masculine and feminine magic divisions?” 

Enjolras leaned forward, intrigued. “I’d never even thought of that. What’s your process?” 

Jehan grinned. “Well that altar is reptile-focused, and I’m trying to use a snake’s spirit to make contact with anyone who wants to talk in the cemetery.” 

Spirit work had fallen so far out of fashion in the past few decades that it wasn’t even taught anymore. Enjolras didn’t know anyone who worked with spirits, and he wasn’t sure if they even existed. Most people thought those who claimed to work with spirits and ghosts were deluded, and though Enjolras had never experienced anything that even came close to validating their existence, he bridled at the idea of condemning any area of magic, especially when those who worked with gods were still accepted by society. He hated double-standards. 

“Where does the feminine aspect come in?” he asked, not wanting to ask whether Jehan’s spells with spirits actually worked in case he offended him. 

“Well I’ve got a real preference for snakes at the moment,” Jehan explained. “They’re pretty perfect for me, actually – feminine in a lot of ways, but masculine in others as well. Phallic, obviously, but also earth and water-based, and there’s a long history of snakes being associated with women. This is just another phase of my experimentation, really.” He smiled at Enjolras, looking like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. “You don’t dismiss that sort of thing?” 

“There aren’t many things I dismiss,” Enjolras said. “If it works, why deride it?” 

“Exactly!” Jehan beamed, and gave Grantaire a thrilled look over his shoulder. Grantaire sat on the bottom bunk and smiled, but when Jehan turned back to Enjolras, he assumed a more guarded look. 

Enjolras’ phone buzzed suddenly in his pocket, and he cursed when he saw the time as he pulled it out. “Shit, sorry, hang on. Hey.” 

“Are you lost?” Combeferre asked dryly. 

“No, sorry, I lost track of time.” Enjolras gave Jehan an apologetic look, and Jehan shrugged, unconcerned. “Where are you?” 

“On my way to the lecture. If you hurry, you could meet me there.” 

“I’ll try.” Enjolras hung up without preamble and got to his feet. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. It was great to meet you though.” 

“You too,” Jehan nodded. “You said last night you were organising something? A group?” 

“It’s just an idea at this point,” Enjolras admitted, taking his plate to the sink and grabbing his jacket. “But I’ve got high hopes.” Grantaire chuckled from the bed and started singing under his breath in English. 

“ _High_ hopes, he’s got… _high_ hopes, he’s got…apple pie in the _sky_ hopes…” 

Jehan pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You want our numbers?” 

“ _Our_ numbers?” Grantaire interjected. 

“My number then,” Jehan retorted. 

“That’d be great,” Enjolras nodded, setting up a new contact in his phone. “Email too?” 

“I’ll text it to you,” Jehan told him, and reeled off his number before raising his eyebrows at Grantaire. “Sure you don’t want to be in our cool new gang?” 

Grantaire snorted. “Fine. God forbid I lose out on building a new bridge.” 

Enjolras smiled at him and set up another new contact, handing Grantaire his phone when he reached for it so he could put his number in. “Brilliant. I’ll see you around?” 

“Not for a while.” Jehan exchanged a look with Grantaire. “But eventually, yeah. Keep in contact.” 

“I will,” Enjolras assured him, taking his phone back and shoving his feet into his shoes. “Definitely.” 

The open air felt wonderful after being cooped up inside with so much stale smoke, and Enjolras jogged to the nearest métro station with a light heart – _two_ potential allies. He’d have to buy Bahorel a drink. 

**Author's Note:**

> You may recognise the song Grantaire sang as [High Hopes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJVewWbeBiY), popularised by Frank Sinatra.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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